Unbound
by Swim Until You Can't See Land
Summary: As punishment for his crimes on Midgard, Loki is silenced for good. But he does not take kindly to humiliation, and vows to take revenge on those who would cut out his silver tongue. With the nine realms in a state of unrest and Asgard on the brink of civil war, now is the perfect time for the God of Lies to make his move. But for power, or vengeance? Loki/OC, minor Thor/Sif.
1. Needle and Thread

**Couple of points regarding this story:**

**- Will be based in the MCU but with heavy influences from mythology and the comics, especially "Thor and Loki: Blood Brothers" by Robert Rodi and Esad Ribic and "Thor: The Trials of Loki" by Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa and Sebastian Fiumara. Both are really good portrayals of Loki as the centre character, and humanise him without making him into the "good guy." **

**- As suggested above, the Loki in this fic won't be unnecessarily dark, but definitely more in line with the comics than the films, where I feel he sometimes suffers a little bit of whitewashing in terms of glossing over or leaving out some of the things he does. He's definitely not the good guy, but hopefully is more than a moustache-twirling villain too.**

**- This begins around the time of Thor: The Dark World but will move past the events of the film into unknown territory. I've taken some liberties with timelines and events regarding the film, so very minor AU.**

* * *

**1**

**Needle and Thread**

* * *

"This way, if you please."

Sif reached out an arm to guide her charge – an innocent gesture, if ill-considered – but the other woman shook her off with barely-concealed hostility. _A mistake_, Sif realised, and it hadn't been the first time either. The nine realms were in a state of unrest, an uneasy tension bubbling below the surface, and even here in Asgard of all places, there was distrust and resentment. Strangers kept their distance now more than ever, especially in the company of those from the royal household.

Setting her jaw, Sif ignored the silent rebuke and led the woman on. There was a time and a place for petty grudges and childish airs, but it was not today. She was here to do her duty, to oversee her task, and she would see it done without incident or delay. There could be no error, no lapse of judgement. Certainly not after last time.

She cleared her throat. "The prisoner is under heavy guard and will pose no threat to you in your task. But I warn you he remains extremely dangerous, and under no condition are you to engage with him in conversation."

_He remains extremely dangerous_. The words were well-rehearsed, and left Sif's tongue with ease, but she was not prepared for the sudden chill down her spine, the flash of a memory before her eyes. She had been the one to find the guards. The first with his throat slit, an expression of confusion upon his face as he lay, motionless, in a pool of red. The second bore no marks, no signs of battle. It was not until later, when his armour had been stripped, that they discovered the frost burn that had spread over his skin.

It had not been Loki's first escape attempt since his imprisonment for his crimes on Midgard, but it had been the furthest he had got before being caught again. Thor had been the one to reach him first, though whether that was a blessing or a curse, Sif could not say. The Allfather might not have stayed his hand as Thor did, and though Sif would never say so aloud, she privately wondered if that would have not been better.

She looked again at the woman, but no reaction was forthcoming. Her dark hood was drawn closely around her face, hiding her expression. If she had heard Sif's instruction, she refused to acknowledge so. Sif gritted her teeth and bit her tongue, knowing that to take it personally would be a waste of time and energy.

Ahead, the stone steps began to form a steep descent, coiling around in snakelike spirals as the two women made their way down into the pits. The dungeons were dark and damp, lit only by the bright lights which came from each cell. Plain, white boxes contained by a force field. Barely enough room to walk from one side to the other. A prison for murderers, traitors, and criminals of the foulest kind. Not royalty. But what happened when royalty itself was a murder, traitor, criminal of the foulest kind?

Frigga had fought for her adopted son on his arrival back in Asgard. Despite what he had done, he was a prince, he was family, and he deserved better than that shamed, squalid cell with the scum of the nine realms. So instead he had been placed under house arrest, under constant watch from the best guards that Asgard had to offer. But Loki's silver tongue had grown even sharper in his absence, and it had not been long before he made his move.

Sif wondered how much of it was a game to him. He had to have known he wouldn't get far before his brother caught up to him. What hope did he have of escaping? But he had attempted to do so regardless, leaving behind the bodies of two who had not been fooled by his persuasive power or conjured tricks. But what were two more bodies to Loki, who had a trail of hundreds behind him?

"You brought her?"

Thor was waiting for them, a troubled expression upon his face. A twisting of his features that was caught somewhere between resignation and distaste.

Sif nodded. "As you requested."

"Good," he said, casting a quick glance at the woman beside her. "Then let this be over with, and quickly. I wish for this to be the last time I have to be in this place."

He had changed much in recent times, and Sif couldn't quite repel the gnawing feeling in her bones that he had done so without her. His recent exploits to Midgard had left him more weary, more contemplative, and when Sif looked at him now she now longer saw the brash, arrogant warrior that she had grown so tolerant of, but the king she had always known he would become. It was as if the part of him that she had always known was inside him was now there for every one to see, but she had not been there to see the change in him.

It hurt, a little. But she was learning that more than the hurt there was pride for what he had become, and comfort in the knowledge that whatever he was, prince or king, friend or lover, she had no hesitation in serving him, in trusting him. Perhaps she had changed as well.

The force field flickered before them and then disappeared. Once they stepped past the threshold, it hummed back into life again, sealing them in until their task was complete. Sif felt her hand make its way to the hilt of her sword, almost of its own accord. A warrior's instinct that was heightened to every one of her senses. She noticed Thor's grip tighten around Mjolnir and was somewhat reassured in the knowledge that it was not only she who was set on edge by the prisoner.

Loki had been sitting against the back wall, legs crossed and head cocked to one side in a display of nonchalance, as if they were nothing more than a mildly interesting rock formation in the dungeon walls. When the force field rose behind them, his mouth stretched into a frightening expression which to Sif seemed equal parts grin and grimace.

"How nice of you to visit, brother. And I see you brought friends, too."

At the word _friends_ his eyes darted across to Sif, who clenched her jaw but said nothing. She was used to Loki's leering glances. Many years ago, they had held desire – childish, harmless desire that had been neither wanted nor welcomed by Sif. Back then, her guilt had only been matched by her distaste. Then the glances began to linger that bit longer. Desire turned to jealousy, and she had woken up in her chambers one morning with her golden hair lying in mutilated scraps around her naked head. When it eventually grew back, it was a dark, deep brown.

She had never forgiven him for it.

Now, though, there was no desire. Not even the faintest, lingering trace left in his eyes. When he turned his eyes on her now – green eyes that never failed to make her feel like he could see every vulnerability, every weak thought – there was only hatred. The kind of hatred that told her that if he ever had to fortune to have her in his grasp, then she would suffer in all the ways she feared the most.

As if reading her thoughts, his smile widened. It wasn't a smile full of humour, like Fandral's, or one of warmth and charm, like Thor's. It tugged at the corners of his mouth, as though it was almost involuntarily stretching his lips over his teeth, and the laughter in his eyes was never good-natured. It spoke of revenge, of pain.

Thor folded his arms, shaking his head as though he was unable to comprehend the man that was sat before him. "We gave you a chance, brother. Our mother pleaded for you to be permitted to reside in chambers that befitted the man you once were. The man we all hoped you still were. Why would you throw that gift back at her with such spite?"

"_Your_ mother," said Loki, with a twitch in his face that is so subtle that Sif thinks she might have imagined it. But there was something altogether different in Loki where Frigga was concerned, and Thor noticed it too.

"She loves you," he insisted. "You are her son, as much as I. And you shamed her with your actions."

"I _honoured_ her with my actions. I was to rule Midgard, to be the ruler that I deserved to be. The ruler that you never could be." He rolled his eyes. "All this fuss over a few humans. Really, it's pathetic."

"Do not test me, Loki," said Thor, taking a step towards him. "Your disdain for the humans will do nothing to help your case."

"And what _is_ my case?" Loki jutted his chin out, curling his lip in a half-sneer. "Putting a few interfering guards in their place?" He laughed. "Surely you have bigger problems than this, brother. Peace in the nine realms hangs by a thread. The other worlds are revolting. Asgard itself is riddled with distrust of Odin's rule."

"The blame for such distrust lies at your feet. You tried to destroy Jotunheim. You tried to destroy Earth. You, a Prince of Asgard, have made the nine realms suspicious and afraid of our people. Everywhere you go, you sow the seeds of destruction." He shook his head, and Sif knew him well enough to see the wrench of pain on his face. "I am truly sorry, but you leave me no choice."

Something triumphant lit up Loki's face. An expression of smugness, of knowing he was right all along. "Ah, so you are here to do what the Allfather could not?" He clucks his tongue in mock-disapproval. "What will your mother say?"

Thor shook his head. "You misunderstand me, brother. You always have. I am not here to kill you, just to silence you, so that your vicious lies and forked tongue can no longer do any damage."

Sif nodded and motioned for the woman to go forward. The dark hood fell down, revealing a shorn head and a thin neck. It was the first time Sif had really seen the woman up close, and she noticed the blue-purple tint of the woman's pale skin under the harsh lights, her sharp cheek-bones, her thin mouth. Features that weren't immediately obvious, but which marked her as not fully Asgardian.

Loki noticed too, and his grin widened. "And what do we have here? A half-breed slave in the Allfather's service?" He leaned towards her, softening his tone. "When were you snatched away from your home to serve at Odin's whim? Did you resist? Or did you submit to your chains under the delusion that you are in his employ, not his servitude?"

Sif shot a warning glance over at Thor, who pursed his lips in concern but said nothing. The woman, for her part, ignored Loki as much as she had Sif and reached inside her robes to produce a needle and thread. The needle was unremarkable, a giving off a dull shine under the lights, but the thread was something else entirely. It was so thin that it would have been almost invisible were it not for its deep, dark colour that seemed as fluid as ink but as shiny as a polished stone. It glinted as the woman unravelled it, and Sif found herself almost mesmerised by it, unable to draw her eyes away.

A sharp laugh came from Loki's throat. "So you _are_ of Svartalfheim. Only the sons of Ivaldi are capable of such _fine_ craftsmanship. But you are no bastard born of one of the dwarves, oh no." He pulled back his lips in a vicious grin. "You have dark elf blood in you. I can see the dead blue tint of your ashen skin. Tell me, what did the Allfather do with your mother after it was discovered she had lain with one of them? Did he kill her, cast her out? Or did he leave her alive to suffer, knowing you had been taken and would never be returned?"

Sif shifted from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable but not willing to be the one to step between Loki and his target of intended manipulation. His words had a way of worming beneath the skin, of burrowing so deep that they began to blur the lines of where your thoughts ended and his subtle manipulations began. Even now, Sif could not help but reflect on his words. They were untrue, she knew that. Children taken into the royal palace were not slaves – it was an honour for their families. And for a half-breed such as this woman, who would never have had the opportunity for a normal life, it was a blessing. Sif herself had been waited on at feasts and banquets by such men and women. All were safe, looked-after and content.

_How do you know?_ a voice seemed to say, taunting her. _Have you ever asked them?_

In front of her, the woman deftly hooked the thread through the eye of the needle, tying the end off. She said nothing, but nodded to Thor.

With a grim expression on his face, Thor dragged Loki away from the wall, pinning his arms tightly behind his back. For a moment, Sif thought she saw a fleeting moment of panic flash across Loki's face. His black hair, long and unkempt, had fallen around his face, and his eyes seemed to widen with the realisation with what was to come.

And then the mask was back in place, so suddenly that it seemed it had never left. He stuck his neck out, a challenge, and then whispered in a low, dangerous voice that was more terrifying than if he had been shouting and cursing. "Think about _this_, half-breed.," he hissed. "Odin's cage will not keep me here forever. I _will_ be free. And when I am, I will track you down to the edges of the nine realms and beyond. I will show you suffering in ways you cannot begin to comprehend. I will cause you such pain that you will wish Odin had left you to die instead of giving you this task. And when I kill you, it will come as a relief."

When the woman stuck the needle through his lip, Loki did not scream. The only indication of his pain was a tight closing of the eyes. When they reopened, they were focused on his torturer, transfixing her with a glare of such hatred that Sif herself began to doubt the wisdom of Thor's idea. Loki had never taken well to humiliation, and this was the ultimate indignity. His pallid cheeks were tinged with red and his chest heaved with each laboured, heavy breath as he unavailingly struggled against Thor's grip.

Again and again the needle worked its way in and out of Loki's mouth, leaving behind a trail of red blood and black thread. With each jab, with each tug, his face seemed to harden, until he was like stone. After a while, the woman was done. She tied off the end of the thread and grasped Loki's chin, tilting his head from side to side as if to admire her handiwork.

Loki recoiled at her touch, his eyes burning with disgust and loathing. His neck was bulging, his shoulders heaving, but his mouth was clamped shut with a line of criss-cross stitches made from thread so strong that no instrument from Asgard could hope to break it. For a moment, Sif almost felt a twinge of pity for the man that had been her dear friend's brother, his family.

Then she remembered the guards. Murdered for doing their duty.

The hundreds of humans on Midgard that he callously slew without a second thought.

Her hair, once flowing and golden and the envy of every woman in Asgard. The hair that Thor had so admired, that he had touched and caressed. That Loki had taken away, out of spite.

And she decided she did not feel pity after all.

Perhaps that was why, instead of pulling the woman away, she allowed her to lean in close to Loki. Her lips were all but brushing against his ear, and although her voice was scarcely more than a whisper, Sif was able to make out her words.

"My name is Lisbet. And vile though your words may be, Loki Prince of Asgard, I welcome them. It gives me great satisfaction to know they will be the last you ever speak."

When she stood up, Sif took hold of her arm. Although there was still hostility in the look she received, the woman did not shake her off this time. Instead, she acquiesced to Sif's grip and allowed herself to be guided from the cell.

Outside, the force field once more hummed into life behind them. Thor turned away from it, giving a heavy sigh. "I do not think I can face coming down here again. It burdens my heart so."

He looked down at Sif, his eyes clouded with regret and pain, and Sif once more felt that wrench in her stomach, feeling as though she was no longer the person who could bring him peace, bring him comfort. Perhaps Thor understood this as well, for he gave a short bow of his head and turned on his heel, heading towards the winding stairs and the hope that back on the surface, he could begin to try to forget.

Sif lingered a moment longer, her hand still gripping the woman's arm, and then began to follow him. She didn't know what compelled her to do it, but for some reason that was unknown to her she found her gaze brought back to look at Loki one last time. She had expected his fury to linger, for him to be sitting there in silent rage with his jaw tight and his eyes burning.

His face was almost serene, calm. And then, ever so slightly, he drew up the corners of his mouth in a bloody, mutilated smile.

* * *

**This is my first time dabbling in Thor fanfiction, so hopefully it's a decent start! The story will be Loki-centric but I often like to introduce the main character through the more minor characters' eyes before we get into their heads. Let me know if it works for you! Any reviews, feedback or constuctive criticism is warmly welcomed and much appreciated.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	2. Mother and Child

**2**

**Mother and Child**

* * *

It was not becoming for the Queen of Asgard to pace so, but Frigga had long discarded any care for decorum or propriety. The Allfather would have mustered forbearance and waited patiently in his chair, but her husband's calm veneer was not something that Frigga could easily replicate when she was anxious. Especially not today.

Instead she paced. She gathered the flowing silks of her dress and walked to the window before letting the folds fall down to her ankles again. The bluegreen sheen of the fabric shimmered under the Asgardian sun, making it seem fluid, as if she were wearing water. It was luxurious, the way it felt on her skin. Soft and weightless. And right now, she despised it.

She gathered the folds again and marched back into the centre of the room to stand by her chair. But she could not sit down. She would not allow herself to sit down, not with the worry that had wrapped itself around her.

Closing her eyes, she thought of her son. She tried to remember Loki as a child, tried to pinpoint the moment that his mischief turned into something more sinister, but she could not quite be sure when it happened. She was too close, coddled him too much, her husband had said. And perhaps she had been too close, for even with all her foresight and perception she had not seen past the illusion he had been projecting for so long. Somewhere along the line, he had chosen to cease to be her son, and she had been so consumed in her love for him that she could not see it. She had failed him, and nothing in the nine realms would convince her that she deserved forgiveness for it. Any forgiveness offered to her she would beg to go instead to Loki. But such bargains could not be made, and as such her son rotted in prison while she paced the halls of her chambers and tore at her hair.

What rags had be been clothed in down in those awful dungeons? How much empty space did he have to pace when his legs grew tight and ached with stiffness? She made a mental note to bring him some books, if only to keep his mind busy, before remembering that Odin had expressly forbidden that she visit. She was not certain if the Allfather was trying to protect her from seeing the man her son had become or whether he only wished to deny Loki her company, as punishment.

_Has he not been punished enough already?_ she asked, silently.

But those words she would never allow to pass her lips. Whatever resentment she may have held for her husband, she buried it in a place deeper than her grief for her son. How could she not? Had she not been the one to tell Loki once that everything the Allfather did was for a reason? She knew she must hold on to that reason now. She had no other choice, or else she would go mad with grief.

There came a knock and the door, and Frigga looked up. "Enter," she said, with all the imperiousness her voice could muster. She was still a queen, and to everybody else she must be seen as a queen. She was a mother too, but that part of her she had to keep private, locked away in the inner recesses of her chambers and her heart. When the people of Asgard looked at her, they looked at her as Frigga, wife of Odin, Queen of Asgard. A strong and loving hand to the king, to the realm. Not Frigga, mother of Loki, who sometimes wished she could give it all up for a few precious moments of time with her son.

Her handmaiden entered, bowing her head and sinking her knees in the customary tradition. Her reddish-gold hair fell in tightly-wound curls around her head and she met Frigga's gaze with a respectful averting of the eyes before looking back up at her. "I have brought her, your majesty."

Frigga tightened her lips, unsure whether she could trust her voice to remain steady. "Very well," she said. "Bring her in."

Moments later, her handmaiden reappeared with the other at her side. There could not have been more of a contrast between the two. Her handmaiden was a comely slip of a girl, her pale skin tinged with a flush of pink and her eyes sharp and bright. The woman she had led into the room, on the other hand, towered over her. A strong, lithe frame was hidden under loose-fitting robes, and the blue-purple tint of her skin seemed unhealthy next to her handmaiden's glow. Her shorn head was a deliberate attempt to show she was different, a refusal to conform. And yet, there was still something unmistakably Asgardian about her, despite her attempts to reject it.

Frigga nodded to her handmaiden, who bowed once more and left the room. Then the queen turned to the other woman, gesturing towards the couch. "Please, sit."

The woman immediately followed her instruction, without any expression upon her face. No resentment, no discourtesy. Just obedience.

"What is your name?" Frigga asked.

"Lisbet, your majesty." The answer came freely, the title without malice.

"Thank you, Lisbet." Frigga looked towards her chair in the centre of the room, wondering whether to sit down, but found her legs unable to move. Instead, she remained standing, and kept the distance between herself and the other woman. "Do you know why I have asked you here?"

The slightest twitch tugged at the side of the woman – Lisbet's – mouth. It was barely perceptible, there and gone too quickly for anyone to notice. Anyone but Frigga, who had raised Loki and was particularly experienced in picking up when people would speak without using words. _Asked me here_? _Or ordered_? But out loud, she kept a respectful tone. "I imagine you have asked me here for news of your son, your majesty."

Frigga nodded, pursing her lips. She was unsure of whether she wanted the answer, but knew that this was the only way to get the truth. Odin would not tolerate the subject being breached. Thor would try to comfort her, try to lighten the blows. No, she needed the truth. "How fares Loki?"

Lisbet met her eyes steadily. "The Prince remains in captivity. He has been punished by the Allfather in a manner befitting his crimes, and I was selected to deliver that punishment."

"That much I could have gleaned from any guard or palace worker," Frigga said, injecting coldness into her voice. "I am asking you how he fared in his punishment. Did he suffer?"

"His mouth was sewn shut with dverger-crafted thread," Lisbet replied. "He took it as well as anybody, given the circumstances."

"Did he resist?"

"He called me a half-breed and promised to kill me. But not much after that."

That time, there was a faint note of satisfaction in her voice. Lisbet seemed to have realised it too, for she immediately averted her eyes and stiffened her jaw. A minor slip-up, considering her composure so far, but a slip-up nonetheless. Loki had crawled his way under her skin, then. Not that this surprised Frigga – her son had a talent for knowing just what to say to expose people. He saw their vulnerabilities and brought them to the surface, peeling away the layers of defence so that they were raw and unprotected.

"Were you born in Asgard?" Frigga asked. She was unsure why she felt the need to change the subject. Perhaps she felt in some way responsible for Loki's words, and wanted to allow Lisbet the chance to understand that her heritage was nothing to apologise for.

"I was, your majesty."

"But your father was of Svartalfheim?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"And I understand you return there on occasion?"

Something in Lisbet's jaw tightened. "I work in the palace smithy. The Allfather sends me to Svartalfheim once every year to acquire knowledge from the dwarves. I purchase materials, bring back the knowledge, and put it to use."

"Only you?"

"They aren't particularly fond of Asgardians."

"I see. And do you enjoy working in the smithy? Your father's people are renowned for their ability to work with metal."

"The sons of Ivaldi are renowned for their ability to work with metal. My father was a Dark Elf, not one of the dverger."

"My mistake," Frigga said. "And yet I presume you show an aptitude for it? The Allfather would not have selected you for...well, to – "

"Yes, I believe I do, your majesty."

As discourteous as it might have been, Frigga was grateful for the interruption. To imagine Loki's punishment was bad enough, to speak it out loud was something she was not yet ready to do.

By now, Lisbet's mask of composure had slipped quite a bit. Her expression was not openly hostile, but throughout Frigga's questioning she had dropped the forced regard in her voice, her words becoming blunter and less wrapped in respect. She raised her chin and met Frigga's eyes. "Was that all you needed, your majesty?"

"Almost," Frigga said, leaning her head to the side. She was unsure how to frame this next part. She did not know how best to word the apology, or whether it would be accepted. But she had to try, on behalf of Loki. "I know my son's words must have seemed cruel, but he only lashes out against what he sees in himself. But it is not our bloodlines, rather our choices that make us who we are. Never feel that you don't belong here. No matter what Loki said, you are Asgardian. You were born here, raised here. You are lucky that your mother's Asgardian features shine through, so dominant."

At that, Lisbet mask dropped completely, and her dark eyes suddenly beholding the queen in fury. "Lucky? I suppose so, your majesty. If I favoured my father I might well be dead instead of living under Asgardian _hospitality_."

Frigga took a step back under the ferocity of the woman's words. "I mean you no offence. I am only trying to show you kindness."

Lisbet shook her head, and almost at once, the anger was gone, replaced by a heavy weariness. "It is not kindness I crave. Only my freedom."

"You are free," Frigga said. For a moment she wanted to reach out, to take Lisbet's hand, but she thought better of it. "Children like you are brought to the palace for your own safety. It's a cruel world out there."

"From what I've just seen, _your majesty_, it's a cruel world in here, too."

And for that, Frigga had no answer.

She called her handmaiden back in, and let her take Lisbet away. She did not know what she had hoped to accomplish by the questioning. She only knew that something inside that woman had painfully reminded her of her son, and his fate. She only knew that she never wanted to lay eyes on her again. There was only one person who could bring her solace now, and that was Loki.

* * *

To visit him was expressly forbidden, Frigga knew that, but she was willing break the rules just this once to see her son for what might be the last time. She knew how to enter the prison undetected – it was she who taught Loki his tricks, after all.

As she approached the cell, she imagined him as the child he used to be, mischievous even then but also eager and excitable. It was not until later that the tricks ceased to be the harmless experiments of a curious child and instead began to be spiteful bouts of revenge enacted on those who had wronged him. When he had cut off Sif's hair Frigga had tried to talk to him, to make him apologise. When she had looked into his eyes she could not find the slightest trace of remorse. It was as if he could not comprehend her lack of understanding. Had he been so lost, even then?

"Loki?"

He could not answer, but Loki had never needed words to make his point, as capable as he was with his silver tongue and subtle manipulations. Where Thor was brash and loud, drawing everyone's attention with his charm and presence, Loki was the silent gap between his brothers boasts, the shadow to Thor's light. But what was a shadow without light?

"Are you all right, my son?"

His mouth was stitched shut, but his eyes told her all she needed to know. He was suffering, that much was obvious, but it was not just the pain. It was the isolation, the boredom, the resentment. Everything was eating away at him, chipping him down piece by piece.

She talked to him for the best part of an hour, with the movements of his face and her own memories providing the words which were meant for the empty gaps of silence. She wished she could pretend for something kinder, something remorseful, but each look he gave her was unrepentant and full of anger. When she mentioned Lisbet, his eyes flashed with such a fury that Frigga felt a shiver run down her spine.

It was only when she gathered her dress, about to leave, that he let the hatred be replaced by a look of pleading, of pain. He put up a ghostly-white palm to the barrier of the cell, and she met it with her own.

"I cannot return," she said in reply to his unvoiced question. The words came thickly out of her throat, half-strangled by unshed tears. "I have disobeyed the Allfather's command once already to come here, and I will not do so again, not when the son I love can show no remorse, no regret for his actions."

He turned his head away, making a fist with his other hand. But there was still no remorse. Only frustration that she did not understand him, did not agree with his actions.

Frigga swallowed. "I hope that this will not be the last time I see you. I hope the next time we meet, you will once more be the man I know you are capable of being, and not this twisted creature you have become. It may be a foolish hope, but it is a mother's hope, and for as long as I live I will always believe that there is a chance you will be returned to me."

He looked back at her, and this time his green eyes were exuding regret. Not at what he had done, but at the pain he had caused her.

"Oh how I wish that could be enough, Loki," Frigga whispered. "But it has never been me you've needed to learn to love. It's yourself."

And with that, she turned her back on her beloved son and left him to his dark hatred.

* * *

**Frigga is an interesting character to write. I've tried to make her kind-hearted and good-natured, but at the same time her position as queen also leaves her quite ignorant and out-of-touch with the reality of life for someone like Lisbet, so hopefully that comes across here. **

**I appreciate everybody who has left a review or followed/favourited this story so far!**

**Thanks for reading.**


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